


The Words That Hurt the Most are the Ones We Have Not Said

by misha_collins_butt



Series: And the Stars Will Fade and the Moon Will Fall but Please Stay With Me Tonight [19]
Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bottom!Sherlock, Breathplay, Choking, Dubious Consent, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Smut, Snogging, Terminal Illness, Tragedy, and making my characters cum twice, bottomlock, choke kink, double orgasm, dubcon, idk what it is with me, mild Dom/Sub, shrug, top!John, tragedy and porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-19 14:27:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20321008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misha_collins_butt/pseuds/misha_collins_butt
Summary: A terrifying revelation finally launches John and Sherlock into each other's arms. John knew Sherlock wasn't the sharing type, but he never thought the dodgy detective would keep a secret like this. All those feelings boil over into an encounter of a whole new kind.





	The Words That Hurt the Most are the Ones We Have Not Said

**Author's Note:**

> Do I love breaking my reader's hearts?  
Possibly.  
Am I a sadist?   
Undeniably.

Sherlock takes refuge in the blood rushing to his head, which he hangs over the end of his bed. His hands rest on his stomach. A sharp pain in his side threatens to dislodge him from his thinking space, but he doesn't let it. He needs to think. He needs to think a lot. 

This current case is a total enigma. So little evidence. So few clues. All they have is an infant's left shoe and the scroll from a fortune cookie. This is like nothing he's ever witnessed.

His eyes snap open at the sound in his doorway.

"Sherlock?" John's voice floats across the room. Sherlock lifts his head and peers down his nose at the veteran at the threshold. He holds up a white envelope along with his eyebrows and asks, "What is this?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. What a silly question.

He feigns examination of the item, squinting, and replies, "Judging by the shape and size, John...I would say it's an envelope."

That doesn't get the reaction he'd hoped. A pebble cracks from the boulder in his esophagus and splashes into his stomach below.

"Don't play stupid," John's tone is frighteningly cold. Sherlock sits all the way up and eyes John, gauging his body language. He adds, "Were you ever going to tell me?"

"By the looks of it, it's mine!" Sherlock exclaims mockingly, igniting the subject. 

A shade of rage he's never seen on John turns the man's face absolutely choleric.

"This is not a joke, you prick!" John advances further into the room, accusatorially thrusting the papers at Sherlock. "I read these!"

"Could've sworn there's a law against that--"

"_SHERLOCK_!" John's scream resonates against the thin walls. It makes Sherlock pause. John's eyelids fall closed and he collects himself with a deep breath. Then, shakily, he asks, "Were you ever going to tell me?"

Sherlock cedes his usually snarky attitude. Clearly John doesn't need it right now. He thought it might help lighten the mood, but this is far different. He's never seen John like this. Sherlock scoots to the edge of the bed and rests his hands calmly in his lap.

"Who am I kidding?" John huffs, eyes turning skyward. "Of course you weren't. Because you lie, Sherlock. That's what you do. And I'm not entirely sure why I keep expecting anything else of you." The words don't cut deep. Sherlock knows what he is. Knows he's not pleasant. And John always reminds him. But something about the outrage in John's eyes shadows Sherlock's thick skin in shame. "But this?" John continues, holding up the papers. "This, Sherlock? I can't...this is almost as bad as the time you faked your own death and didn't tell me for two years. No, no, you know what?" John shakes his head and points a finger at the mail. "This is worse than that. This is worse than you faking your death. At least when you did that, you spared me the time to grieve. In fact, I'd rather this be some sick joke!" Trails of water leak from the corners of John's eyes and dangle from the edges of his jaw. He shouts again, this time making Sherlock flinch, "TELL ME THIS IS A JOKE, SHERLOCK! TELL ME IT'S NOT REAL!"

When Sherlock doesn't answer, John lets out something akin to a laugh. Sherlock doesn't understand the wild, pendular emotions of this man. It must be confusing to live like that. Though, lately, Sherlock's come to experience it, himself.

In the background of the ringing muffling his ears, Sherlock hears Watson yelling, "How could you not tell me, Sherlock?! Do you think you're not important? To _anybody_? That nobody cares?"

As John goes on in his ranting, Sherlock quietly stands, walks to him, and, mid-sentence, takes John's face in his hands and makes the man look up at him. 

Another pebble drops into the pit of his stomach. He feels the boulder shift. He's frightened for the day that it erodes enough to fall. That day will be his breaking point.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispers. And he means it. He means it because it's John. He tries so hard to not hurt John, but he keeps doing it and every time, he regrets it. He despises feeling regret. So he doesn't want to preread anymore. "Please don't be mad."

John screws his eyes shut. Attempts to shake his head, though Sherlock holds it still. 

"No," he responds simply. "No, no, no, you don't--you do not get to do that to me. Not this time, Sherlock, not for this. You do not get to show me those stupid puppy eyes, and apologise, and act like that makes it okay. Because it doesn't. It doesn't. Not this time."

Sherlock doesn't know what to say to this. He thought apologising would be the right thing to do. He thought, maybe, that's what John wanted. But now John is saying that's not enough. And Sherlock isn't entirely sure what is.

When John's eyes peel back open and he sees Sherlock staring at him, probably with a blank look - Sherlock has never been good at controlling his facial expressions to reflect what he feels - John gets angry again. His bottom lip wobbles and he slaps Sherlock's hands away.

"Fuck you, Sherlock!" John bellows. As if that didn't do it, he begins pounding at Sherlock's chest, repeating it over and over again, eyes watery and red, "Fuck you fuck you fuck you!"

Sherlock just grabs his wrists and holds the fiery veteran against him with desperate arms. It takes a moment but, eventually, John stops trying to hit him. Sherlock feels the tears begin to push against the backs of his eyes. He hates that feeling, too. He hasn't felt it in so long.

When he pulls away, he locks his blurring gaze on John, opens his mouth to say something, and promptly chokes on the sudden gasp that rips at his throat as the tears spring to his lashes.

"John, I'm scared," Sherlock confesses. 

He ducks his head as his bottom lip quivers and he begins to sob. He never wanted John to see him do this. He never thought it would even happen.

Abruptly, John's hand squeezes his jaw and yanks his head down. And John is kissing him. 

At first, Sherlock makes a surprised noise, but finds himself relaxing and grasping John's head with shaking hands. 

John pulls back too soon, but instead of complaining, Sherlock simply, stupidly asks, "Why did you do that?"

The shorter man gently shakes his head again, brushing a tear from Sherlock's cheek.

"If you're really going to do this...if you're really going to...well, I needed you to know...I just had to tell you...show you how I feel," John stumbles to find words that make sense together.

To Sherlock, the message is clear.

Gently, he inquires, "What _do_ you feel?"

"Right now? Anger," John answers, a darkness clouding his light irises. After another long second, he repents, "I love you, Sherlock. But right now, I need to clear my head." Sherlock nods. He understands. "Promise you'll still be here when I get back. Promise me."

"Promise," Sherlock whispers without hesitation. It seems to reassure the other man.

Without another word, John slips away, and Sherlock watches him go.

All he's got left now is the envelope John snuck into his hand as he left. 

And standing in that doorway, John's footsteps receding, Sherlock looks down at the paper peeking out from the envelope. At his fate. 

At the big, bold letters reading,

**Pancreatic Cancer................Positive**

\--

John holds it together just long enough to make it outside. There, he lets himself crumble. 

The first thing he does, despite his state of sobbing, is whip out his mobile and proceed to call everyone he and Sherlock have ever known. Ms. Hudson, Greg, Mycroft, Sherlock's parents, even Anderson. All of them already know.

Then, he calls Molly. Because he recognised the address on the envelope as Molly's lab at the station. 

"John?" Her voice sounds far away. 

"Molly, I--" the words catch in John's throat. He coughs and tries again. "I saw the papers. Sherlock's diagnosis. I...Molly, he lied to me. Again." His lids flutter down over his sore eyes. "This time might be the worst. And I know...I know he does it because he thinks he's protecting me. Sparing me. But I...I can't do this. I can't do it this time. How can I forgive him?"

There's a very, very long silence on the other end of the line. For a moment, John thinks Molly may have hung up. 

But then, somberly, "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry you had to find out this way."

John sniffles. Everyone knew but him. He understands the reason for that - understands that Sherlock cares about him a little more than the others, and the thought is sweet until another overpowers it. The one that tells him just the opposite. The one that tells him Sherlock doesn't care _enough_. It's not true, he knows. 

At times like this, it's hard not to believe.

He rakes his hand back through his hair and inhales with calming intent.

"How long? How long has he known?" John questions.

"A month."

A high pitched sound like a mix between a laugh and a cry escapes his mouth.

"Seems sort of short. I was expecting a lot longer," he remarks, half joking.

More silence settles between speakers. John feels himself spiraling, losing himself in the darkness. Sherlock was always his light. Now, that's being stolen from him.

"John," Molly's voice reels him in, back from the depths of drowning waters. "He _needs_ you right now. He's not going to let you help him, so you need to make him let you. You need to force yourself into every second of his day. Make sure he doesn't fall back into bad habits. The drugs...all that. Me and Greg and the others, we can all try, but ultimately, it's you, John. It needs to be you. He doesn't care for us the same way. He'll do anything for you. You need to let him apologise. You need to forgive him before it's too late. You have to."

Sometimes, the truth is the last thing you want to hear. Sometimes, it stings much more than a lie would. And it stings. It burns. The thought of finally getting so close to Sherlock, only for him to be gone in a matter of years, maybe even months, is one that slices at John beyond his limits. 

A whole new wave of tears overtakes him. He quietly sobs into the phone. He doesn't even quite care that people see or hear him.

"I can't, Molly, it hurts. It hurts so much--"

"Yes, you can," she reprimands forcefully. Her voice is an anchor. But John's hitch is splintering and his hands are weak. "You can because you have to. You _have_ to. Because if you go away, he won't have a reason to hold on as long as he can. Don't you want that, John? Don't you want him to hold on?"

"Yes. Yes, of course I do," he scrubs the tears from his cheeks. Feels his nose begin to leak.

"Have you told him yet?" Molly's question doesn't make sense at first. Told him? That John wants him to hold on? He would think that's sort of implied with Sherlock. Then she clarifies, "That you love him - have you told him yet?"

Softly, John replies, "Yes. I did."

"Tell him again," Molly commands. "Tell him every day. Tell him until he believes you. He won't admit it, but he needs that from you. And when this is all over, John, when he is gone...you cannot lose yourself. You simply cannot. You mustn't lock yourself up and rot away. You aren't allowed, I won't allow it. You have to stay. Even after he's gone, you have to stay, you have to. Because that's what he'd want."

"It's not fair--"

"None of this is fair," Molly interrupts, tone sure and solid. The only thing John has to latch onto right now, as his entire world melts away like candle wax around him. "None of it is fair, but you cannot let that mean the end of you. Sherlock would hate you forever for putting yourself in a cage over his grave."

John finds the strength, somehow, to nod. To agree. To hold at bay the pointed teeth of cynicism threatening to consume him for the time being. 

"Okay," he resigns. "Okay, I won't."

"And, John?" Molly gets quiet again. She sounds small and terrified, just like John feels. "You're family now. Don't forget that."

"I won't--"

"No, John, you will. You'll try to. I know you. You're going to try so hard to forget about me and anyone else who cares about you. Don't push us away. When he's gone, don't leave us in the cold. We will all need each other, do you understand?"

John's breaths come short and shallow. He begs the heavens that he doesn't believe in to give him relief from this. To wake him up from this nightmare. To give him some strength. He's never prayed, but he might start now. 

"I understand," he returns finally. 

"I know you do," Molly's grin seeps into her voice. It gives John a spark of light that he grasps onto like the rope that will save him from this freefall. In the background of the call, another voice says something from farther away and Molly replies to it, "Okay, just give me a minute." Then, to John, "John, if I could talk to you all day, I would. But I have to go right now. If you want, I'll stop by later. I need to drop off some papers for Sherlock there anyway. He hasn't come in to pick them up, but they're important."

John nods and asks, "What kind of papers?"

The pause on Molly's end rips John's heart to shreds. 

"Treatment plan," Molly relents, voice hiding in the shadows of her teeth. 

John's heart regrows just so it can be torn out again. 

"He hasn't started treatment yet?"

Molly doesn't answer that. All she says is, "I'll talk to you later, John." Then she hangs up.

He feels like he's skydiving with a parachute made of steel, a million miles an hour toward the earth and the ground his coming at him to meet his limp body halfway, to swallow him whole and regurgitate his dreadful bones into the emptiness of space, leaving his soul to float forever through the nothingness that he feels chewing up his insides.

"John?" Sherlock slingshots him back to reality. 

He blinks up at the genius detective. Feels everything and nothing all at once. His outrage has subsided into defeat, but somehow he's so empty.

Sherlock's warm hand sliding into his fills the void, just a bit.

John stands up from the bench, eyes shining at his companion. Sherlock looks horrified, ashamed. John will make sure to remind him that it's okay. It'll all be okay.

"Why don't we go back upstairs, huh?" John suggests, nodding his head at the entrance to their flat. "We can find a ridiculous cartoon to watch and curl up with some junk food."

Sherlock tried to hide a smirk. It makes the spark in John that Molly gave him grow a little brighter.

He leads Sherlock back inside, and shuts the door behind him.

\--

**The Next Day: Having a Talk**

"What can I do?"

Short, pleading pause.

"Tell me you're sorry, again," John whispers, eyes watering and insistent on Sherlock's. Then, he adds bitterly, "But don't if you aren't actually sorry. I only want you to apologise if you mean it. I know you did yesterday, but I was too angry to tell if you meant it."

Sherlock drops his gaze to his hands which are loosely linked in his lap. 

Mumbles, "I don't know if I am." The hurt and betrayal in his friend's eyes when he looks up gives him pause before he continues cautiously, "I think I feel guilt. And remorse." Back down at his fingers. "I don't know if that counts, though. I thought it did, but it didn't seem to yesterday. Even if it does, I don't know if it's enough. I don't know what will be enough."

They sit silently for a heavy, strained moment. It crushes down on his lungs that burst with bright yellow anxiety.

Until, softly, from the chair across from the edge of his bed where he waits for doom, the voice replies, "You were always enough, Sherlock. You've always been enough."

"That's not what I said--" 

Ridiculous argument.

"No, but it's what you meant."

He's right. He's always right, even when Sherlock is right, too. John is always more right. Because even though he doesn't have the logical processes that Sherlock does, he has the emotions of a human. And sometimes human emotions are more right than logic. That has been Sherlock's balance bar across the rope tied just-barely-too-slack which he walks upon; that thin line between sanity and madness.

It's a dangerous position to be in. When your balance is dependent on your precariously tense relationship with a partner that is not sure whether to be awed or irked. Cruel intent could easily be just around the corner, lurking. And Sherlock knows that better than most.

"Don't go missing in that big head of yours, Sherlock," John breathes, suddenly closer. He leans on his elbows against his thighs, perched on the edge of the chair he'd earlier pulled into Sherlock's bedroom. "Not yet, anyway. There are still too many things left to say."

Sherlock drags his eyes upward, heaving with every pull in the battle against pride.

"I'm sorry," he speaks it genuinely, though he's not entirely sure it's actually his voice. The words sound wrong, feel foreign on his tongue. But he means them. At least, he wants to mean them. So, for all intents and purposes, he does. Tries them out again, "I'm sorry."

John's face remains unreadable. A spark of recognition of the sincerity in Sherlock's admittance shines in his eyes, but he is otherwise a blank board of uncertainty.

He nods slowly, like he's contemplating.

Then John stands, pushing against his knees. Approaches Sherlock slowly. Holds his hand out to the detective. Patient, like he's expecting to have to wait.

With trepidation, Sherlock slides his lithe fingers into John's palm. Like a trigger pulled, John drops down onto his haunches and tries to catch Sherlock's gaze, hanging onto that hand like a lifeline and John is the one that is drowning.

"Tell me you love me back," John beseeches the entranced mask Sherlock feels himself wearing. "I need to hear you say it. I know you do, but I need to hear the words."

Sherlock watches him, fickle gloom flashing through his sky blue irises in dense strobes. Says nothing. Wants to. Scared to.

If he says it, it becomes real. A confirmation of feelings he thought he'd swallowed eons ago. If it's real, tangible, it's easier to lose, and stings more in that same breath. 

"Please, Sherlock," John's voice wavers, a crack forming in his chassis. Reduced to begging. "Please." 

And Sherlock hadn't meant to press his partner so hard. But here they are, so now he has no other choice, and there's no one else to blame for it.

He offers a small nod, and confesses, "I do. I love you."

Tears spring out onto John's eyelashes. He vaults forward and connects their mouths, free hand floating up to loop his fingers through Sherlock's curls. 

Their held hands twist to interlace digits. John comes to a full stand and the angle deepens their already desperate kiss, launching Sherlock into a famished frenzy of ghosting hands across ribcages and soft noises between breaths. 

Lead shoulders bearing their unwritten hearts weigh them back into the bed, pile of twined limbs and rolling hips. 

Sherlock's mind is wiped vacant of any and all rationality as John's lips move to his jaw, his throat, then his sternum with hands tearing buttons from their holes. They find Sherlock's nipples, a tongue swiping then sucking the pebbled skin between sharp teeth. 

Sherlock's head careens back, a sound between a gasp and a moan manifesting in his chest. John leaves shimmering trails of spit along Sherlock's stomach, making absolutely certain that every centimetre of his body is covered in praise.

Abruptly, a husky voice churns against his ear, "I want to taste you." Shivers slam up Sherlock's spine in oscillating ribbons as John continues, "Let me eat you out."

_Fucking fuck shit bugger and bollocks bloody fucking hell shit._

Unable to form a single human noise tantamount to the English language, Sherlock only whimpers and nods his head fervently.

He's not entirely sure how they got to this point but his shirt has disappeared and the button and zipper of his slacks are being undone, relieving the pressure on his aching member, then his hips are being lifted so the trousers and pants can be yanked off at the same time.

And then he's completely, one hundred percent naked and his best friend in the world is crawling up between his thighs. 

Seriously, how did they get to here?

John props Sherlock's legs up on his shoulders and pulls the taller man toward the edge of the bed by his hips until John's lips are carving bruises in the crook between Sherlock's groin and inner thigh. 

Threads of tingling nerves branch out from the sensation and brush along his more sensitive areas, eliciting breathy sighs.

Before John can go much further, Sherlock stops him with a gentle hand on his cheek and says plainly, "I don't want you to hurt your leg."

John's lust-blown pupils switch up to Sherlock's face and John nods, seeming to just narrowly understand with what's been left intact of his obviously dwindling brain cells.

With a crack of his knee, John stands swiftly and peels off his t-shirt, throwing it haphazardly over his shoulder before manhandling Sherlock so he's on his frontside, face pressed into the comforter just below his crooked pillows, legs half-bent and arse in the air. 

The doctor wastes no time digging his nails deep into Sherlock's hip, making greedy, salacious noises when he stuffs his tongue brazenly into Sherlock's hole. He licks fervidly past the rim, progressively tugging Sherlock back and back and back, until there's no humanly possible way they could be any closer, or that John's tongue could be any farther inside. 

Sherlock makes an ungodly squeak when John begins to tease a finger around the edge, then works it in alongside his tongue, which is very quickly replaced by a second finger.

John feathers kisses up Sherlock's spine as he twists and turns his digits deep in Sherlock's ass, making sure to be gentle enough that it doesn't harm him but stretching him just enough that it's intentionally a bit painful. 

The detective is panting out profanities as though it will absolve him of sin and the rapture is moments away. 

Toes curling, brown mop of hair stuck against his forehead, sleek with sweat. He's never been more vulnerable in his adult life. He's just happy that it's John whom he's with at the moment. Anybody else would have never been able to convince him of how bloody fantastic it can feel to let someone else take control. Of how much he _needs_ somebody else to take control for once. 

The fingers occupying him come to a quick pause and those damnable lips are painting Sherlock's ear again with words that feel far away and far too close all at once.

"Do you want me, Sherlock?" They ask without shame, confident and glorious and damn near radioactive in the way they shoot through Sherlock's head and explode into sparkling colours that trickle out across his flesh. "Do you want me inside you? Tell me what it is you want. Anything, and I'll do it. For you."

"Yes!" is the only word Sherlock has the mind to cry out. 

He's tongue-tied and useless and he unflinchingly loves it.

Fingers leave him empty, an ache that evokes a rather shocking whine on Sherlock's part. 

But, for once, he feels fortunate that John has gone through all of his drawers, because that means he already knows where the lube is, and it takes less than 10 seconds for him to shuck the remainder of his clothing and spread an exorbitant amount of it onto himself and onto Sherlock as well. 

Before Sherlock has time to regain his senses, John is pushing past the ring of muscle and slowly sliding against Sherlock's walls, very briefly clipping just the outer edge of his prostate, until he's fully engulfed in the detective's trembling body.

John's gliding hands turn fiery as he yanks Sherlock up and back, so the taller man's spine curves against the soldier's chest. Rough, calloused fingers wrap themselves around Sherlock's neck, a bit hesitant.

"Is this okay?"

Again, Sherlock only has the presence of mind to nod ardently in place of words. How John is still capable of speaking is beyond him.

The hand tightens just as John begins to fuck into him and the splendor sends Sherlock rocketing straight to cloud nine, where he lets himself breathe in the thin stratosphere and exhale his mindless ecstasy in brilliant hues. John bites teasingly along his neck, from the curve of his shoulder to the delicate skin behind his ear where sweat traces his contours.

John's other hand is an anchor on Sherlock's left hip, tethering him to the bed with violently deft power.

His advance on climax is a serene, sweet river that gradually comes to an unexpected rapids. His back bends inward, pulling away from John's warmth, but his head rolls slack against John's collarbone and his jaw hangs open as bawdy sounds rush from his chest.

"John," Sherlock gasps, realising suddenly that he's on the edge of an orgasm like he's never experienced. "Harder. Please."

God, he's never begged in his life, never been degraded to such a sniveling mess before. The thought of coming on John's cock alone spikes his blood with shivering adrenaline and all his muscles seize up, ripping a howl of pleasure from his mouth.

John must understand because the shorter man removes his hand from Sherlock's throat, shoves him back down so his clammy face slams into the blanket, and jams his bent knees under the tops of Sherlock's thighs, effectively pushing his dick in as deep as it can go. 

It knocks the air from Sherlock's lungs. He wheezes out a quivering whimper, hands balling the fabric beneath him into sweaty fists. With every thrust, John is skimming that sweet spot, and he damn well knows it. Fucks harder and faster until the bed is creaking against the wall and Sherlock is just sounding off one continuous moan.

"If I let you cum first, Sherlock," John growls against the nape of his neck, hips rocking, fingers tangling in Sherlock's hair and pulling taut, "then I'm going to fuck you until cum again." An exhilarated pitch leaps from Sherlock's lips. He nods. "Is that what you want?" Second nod. Cautionary yank on his scalp. "Use words, Sherlock." Another thrust, angry and warning. "What do you want?"

"I want you to fuck me until I cum twice," Sherlock barely gets it out in a single breath. He is positively wrecked. Strung out like the addict he once was. Still might be, he sometimes fears.

But there's no time to think about that now. Not when John's malicious grin is pressing into Sherlock's back and his nails are dragging jaggedly over Sherlock's nipples.

With an abrupt jolt, Sherlock is coming, pulsing white strings onto his newly clean bed covers and without half a brain to even care. John's name dangles from his teeth just before the feeling passes and he collapses into his own mess. 

A chuckle, low and wicked, vibrates against his bottom as the soldier it emanates from smooths his hands up Sherlock's back. 

"Ready?" Whispered gingerly against the shell of his ear. For the moment, John has hit pause on slamming into Sherlock's ass, but his hands never stop moving, scrawling fine lines of goosebumps across Sherlock's ribs, his waist, his hips, the cheeks of his occupied backside, down the backs of his thighs and then back up again. "I want to see your face this time."

Muffled, mouth half smooshed against his bed, Sherlock blubbers, "Please."

So, after some awkward jostling and shimmying about, John is laid back and Sherlock is climbing on top of him and sinking down on his cock without a second thought. The satisfied smirk marring John's lips says everything. He'd like to see Sherlock ride him like a rollercoaster. Oh, is he in for a treat.

Though he's barely recovered from his last climax, Sherlock already feels the delicious, throbbing pain of another erection. Who can blame him? There's no better place to sit right now than where he's bouncing himself into absent-minded oblivion.

John bends his legs up, hooking them behind Sherlock's flanks, creating a rather enjoyable friction that the detective pushes back on.

It must take no longer than a handful of minutes for John to drop his head back into the pillows as his mouth slowly widens and he takes control again, grasping Sherlock by the hips and bucking up into him. John seems to remember he wanted to watch Sherlock orgasm this time, so his eyes retrain on what must be an incredibly gratifying 'o' face that Sherlock is currently wearing because a smile seeps into the corners of the veterans lips.

Thankfully, John is what Sherlock likes to call a 'mover'. Sexually induced, much like the term 'screamer'. 

As John unloads himself inside Sherlock's ass, his hips continue to stutter. Meaning the detective gives as much as he gets. In the form of another orgasm that brings him dangerously close to losing consciousness. He doubles over as black spots form on the periphery of his vision, lax mouth hanging open against John's neck, and they cum together, all harsh, heaving breaths and clutching hands and embedding nails.

And when it's over, when he comes down from the high, for once, reality does not find itself crashing back into him. His out of body experience is not cut short by the slingshot effect that drugs have. No, this is like nothing else. Like he's floating effortlessly back into his own mind, calm and cool, a fresh sunset offering the promise that there will be another day.

The night creeps up on them on all fours, but this time, it is not a snarling, caustic demon lined in barbed wire and insomnia. This time, it is tender and full, and it blooms like spring. And they lie there, in their mess and sweat and static heads, soaking each other in. 

Until it becomes just a bit too uncomfortable and sticky and they decide to shower and strip the bed. And then John makes sure he hasn't bruised Sherlock's neck, and that Sherlock is okay emotionally. 

'Because after care is important'. That's how John explains it. Sherlock doesn't think it's exactly paramount but he's not about to protest being massaged and kissed and whispered sweet nothings to.

That night, Sherlock sleeps in John's bed, tucked beneath the doctor's strong arm and bathed in moonlight.

And for the first time in a very long time, he sleeps soundly, knowing that in the morning, he will have John to wake up to. In the morning, everything will have changed.

And it only took a positive cancer test and a single apology to make it happen.


End file.
